If My Father Were Still Writing Essays,

Books Wrote Our Life Story, And As They Accumulated On Our Shelves (and On Our Windowsills, And Underneath Our Sofa, And On Top Of Our Refrigerator), They Became Chapters In It Themselves.

A Philosophy Professor At My College, Whose Baby Became Enamored Of The Portrait Of David Hume On A Penguin Paperback, Had The Cover Laminated In Plastic So Her Daughter Could Cut Her Teeth On The Great Thinker.

It Has Long Been My Belief That Everyone's Library Contains An Odd Shelf. On This Shelf Rests A Small, Mysterious Completely Unrelated To The Rest Of The Library, Yet Which, Upon Closer Inspection, Reveals A Good Deal About Its Owner.

You Can Miss A Lot By Sticking To The Point.

If You Truly Love A Book, You Should Sleep With It, Write In It, Read Aloud From It, And Fill Its Pages With Muffin Crumbs.